hat the Poets of the present day are
equal to all others, excepting one: however this may be, it is
certain we are not fair judges, because of the natural reason stated
before; and there is decidedly one great fault in the moderns, that
not only do they study models with which they can never become
intimately acquainted, but that they neglect, or rather reject as
worthless, that which they alone can carry on with perfect success: I
mean the knowledge of themselves, and the characteristics of their
own actual living. Thus, if a modern Poet or Artist (the latter much
more culpably errs) seeks a subject exemplifying charity, he rambles
into ancient Greece or Rome, awakening not one half the sympathy in
the spectator, as do such incidents as may be seen in the streets
every day. For instance; walking with a friend the other day, we met
an old woman, exceedingly dirty, restlessly pattering along the kerb
of a crowded thoroughfare, trying to cross: her eyes were always
wandering here and there, and her mouth was never still; her object
was evident, but for my own part, I must needs be fastidious and
prefer to allow her to take the risk of being run over, to overcoming
my own disgust. Not so my friend; he marched up manfully, and putting
his arm over the old woman's shoulder, led her across as carefully as
though she were a princess. Of course, I was ashamed: ashamed! I was
frightened; I expected to see the old woman change into a tall angel
and take him off to heaven, leaving me her original shape to repent
in. On recovering my thoughts, I was inclined to take up my friend
and carry him home in triumph, I felt so strong. Why should not this
thing be as poetical as any in the life of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary
or any one else? for, so we look at it with a pure thought, we shall
see about it the same light the Areopagite saw at Jerusalem surround
the Holy Virgin, and the same angels attending and guarding it.

And there is something else we miss; there is the poetry of the
things about us; our railways, factories, mines, roaring cities,
steam vessels, and the endless novelties and wonders produced every
day; which if they were found only in the Thousand and One Nights, or
in any poem classical or romantic, would be gloried over without end;
for as the majority of us know not a bit more about them, but merely
their names, we keep up the same mystery, the main thing required for
the surprise of the imagination.

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